


All Who Suffer

by moodymarshmallow



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Angst, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-11
Updated: 2012-06-11
Packaged: 2017-11-07 12:31:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/431223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moodymarshmallow/pseuds/moodymarshmallow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hawke isn't going to let Kirkwall take everything he loves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_These initial shock waves can’t last_   
_They’re gonna wanna see the real love soon_   
_They’re gonna wanna see the real bombs in the air_   
_They’re gonna wanna hear the real songs in their ears_   
_They’re gonna burn the flagpoles when they find out_   
_They’re gonna cry with salty tears_   
_And they’ll call themselves witnesses for the truth_   
_And they speak the broken language of love_   
  


Anders’ clinic had been ransacked. The doors were off the hinges, the tables overturned. That desk, the one where Anders would lean, resting his world-weariness for one necessary moment before turning to the next patient, it was on its back, drawers pulled out and scattered. Hawke wanted to right it, as if that would make a difference. The stillness belied the struggle apparent in the scuffed dirt floor that shifted under Hawke’s heavy boot, in the cracked barrels and broken glass, in the scorch marks. Whatever happened, Anders had defended himself. Hawke wondered if that made things better or worse. He walked slowly through the small, dark room, holding firm against the creeping panic until he saw the body crammed in the corner like trash, small and broken. This city was trying to kill him. One by one, the things he loved were wretched away. Hawke half-expected to come home one day to find the family mabari dead on the hearth.

But the body didn’t belong to Anders; it was one of the young women that came to help with patients. She was a Fereldan, a refugee, and she didn’t deserve to die in a desolate place like this—not that anybody did. Relief made Hawke feel selfish as he closed her staring eyes and found a cloth to cover her up. He’d have to tell Aveline. But first, he had to find Varric. Somebody in Kirkwall must know what happened here, and if they did, Varric would too.

Hawke tried to leave calmly, tried to measure his strides and take the stairs one at a time while the cold, rising fear robbed him of his ability to control his feet. Once he was up the stairs outside of the clinic he was running, pushing past elves and beggars, fleeing the Undercity like it was chasing him. His head wouldn’t be quiet; it kept replaying and reliving. Again, he watched his siblings die. Again, he watched his mother die. It was a trend now; there was nothing to suggest he’d ever be able to help the ones he loved, and there weren’t all that many left.

Varric was at the Hanged Man, always a step ahead, always with his ear to the ground. The information had come to him as soon as he returned to the city, so he gathered everyone he could find and sat them at his table, waiting for Hawke. Discomfort reigned. Sebastian and Fenris sat across from one another, scowling, while Isabela downed whiskey directly from the bottle. If Hawke didn’t show soon, Varric was going to have to send someone after him, and he wasn’t sure who he trusted to do it. Luckily he didn’t have to. Just as whatever silent argument that the elf and the choir boy were having threatened to come to blows, Hawke burst in, looking older then he should, looking like a man who’d seen everything.

“Varric!” Hawke was out of breath, but he yelled anyway, passing drunken, nosy patrons as he ran up the stairs. Later, when this was all written down, Varric found himself wanting to play down the expression on his friend’s face. Normally he’d exaggerate; make sure that the audience could visualize everything, and add a little poetic license on top. This time he kept using words like “concern,” as if those two innocuous syllables could really capture even a hint of what passed over Hawke’s face. “Tell me it wasn’t the Templars, Varric.” Hawke knew the answer, he just wanted to be lied to.

“Hawke, I hope you appreciate that I betray the Chantry for this,” Sebastian began, looking genuinely conflicted, a familiar mode for that unblemished face. “I came as soon as I heard.” From one of the pouches on his belt he produced a long silver key, which he placed on the table in front of him and slid towards Hawke. “Consider this part of my debt to you, I cannot follow, but I can at least aid you in getting to him.”

“He’s in the chantry? Not the Gallows?” Hawke picked up the key. It was so innocuous, just metal, it didn’t seem right. It should have been red and glowing, or hot to the touch, something that accurately portrayed the violence at the clinic.

“I only heard the Templars talking about it today. They didn’t refer to him by name, but, “apostate healer from the Undercity,” is fairly obvious.” Frowning grimly, Sebastian got to his feet. “I can do no more to help you, Hawke. But I will ask the Maker to forgive you for what you must do.” He put a hand on Hawke’s shoulder as he passed him, dim firelight glinting on his white armor as he left the Hanged Man.  

There was a thud as Isabela slammed the empty whiskey bottle against the table.

“So boys, are we going to stand here feeling sorry for ourselves, or are we going to break into the chantry?”      


	2. Chapter 2

Hightown wasn’t the best place to be at night. Fancy buildings and nice landscaping just meant for more motivated thieves. The last thing Hawke needed was to get slowed down by fighting off the type of idiots that saw Varric, Fenris, and Isabela following him and thought they’d be easy pickings. He didn’t have time for this. Sebastian may have only just heard about Anders’ capture, but Varric’s contact said the clinic had been empty for days.

_Days._

Varric would later ask Hawke what he was thinking that night, as if it could have been anything other than Anders. It was all Anders—all feathers and scruff of stubble, intense eyes and that one incomparable moment when Anders had almost knocked him over just to kiss him. As if it were that necessary to throw away the notions of  _strength_  and  _weakness_  and show Hawke that once in a while, wearing armor didn’t mean that you got to call the shots.

By the time they reached the chantry, there was a trail of bodies that stretched to the stairs from Lowtown. He’d have to tell Aveline about  _that_  too, whenever he found her. There were no Templars on guard, and the door slid open easily when Hawke pushed. It was dim inside, long shadows falling from the statuary and spreading across the floor, thwarted only by the pinpoints of light from haphazardly lit candles.

“Did Sebastian say what this key is supposed to unlock?” Hawke asked, his voice echoing in the eerie silence as he did his best to sound as though he wasn’t one panicked twinge away from kicking down doors.

“Who’s there?” A voice, thin and feminine, came from the direction of the pews. Carrying a small candle, a young initiate descended the stairs. “Who are you? Why do you bring weapons into the chantry?”

“We know they’re holding a mage here,” Hawke said. It was  _Anders_ , not just “a mage,” but a healer, a grey warden, a man with a sweet laugh, a terrible diamondback player who loved cats. Why did it all have to be boiled down into one word? It couldn’t be—it never should be. “I don’t want anyone to get hurt. If you know where he’s being held, tell us, otherwise, I suggest you leave.”

The initiate wavered shakily from one foot to the other. She was very young, probably not out of her late teens, and the look on her face suggested that, next to Hawke, the scariest thing she’d ever faced was the Grand Cleric.

“Look, Sister.” Varric, always thinking, always plotting, stepped forward. “You have to understand, the mage is her husband.” Varric jerked his head towards Isabela. “They’ve been together for ten years; she just wants a chance to say goodbye.” Fenris snorted derisively as Isabela took a place beside Varric, putting on a puppy-eyed pout that would have made Merrill look stern.

“I know that I don’t deserve the Maker’s mercy for harboring a mage, but I love him so dearly, Sister. Please, just let me tell him that one more time.” Isabela’s performance, although a little overblown in Hawke’s opinion, seemed to have worked. The initiate met her in the foyer and handed her the candle.

“There are rumors that the Templars are keeping an abomination in the basement,” she said, sad and naive, looking at Isabela with great pity. “But I never believed them. They would not keep an abomination. I will pray that your husband is shown mercy.” With that, the young woman slipped out of the chantry, sliding the large door shut behind her.

“ _I love him so dearly_.” Fenris chuckled under his breath as Hawke began opening doors, looking for one that was locked, looking for one that led downstairs.

“Next time you have a better idea, feel free to speak up,” said Isabela.

Inside one of the closets, concealed by a haphazardly leaning wardrobe, Hawke found a locked door. Sebastian’s key worked. He’d have to thank him for that later; he added that to the list of things he was obligated to do. It was such a long list. Beyond the door there was blackness and a foul, musty odor. Hawke took the candle from Isabela, trying not to make too much of the silence as he took the narrow, steep stairs slowly, holding the wall with one hand.

“I didn’t even know the chantry had a basement,” Varric said, sounding incredulous at his own failure to be informed. “Hey elf, can you lend us some lyrium light so we can see down here?”  

“No.” Fenris’ voice faded, and to Hawke it sounded as though he had gone back upstairs. He returned with one of the lanterns that had been hanging outside of the chantry, passing it to Varric.

The dim light made it easier to descend the long staircase, though the thin passage grew more narrow by the step. By the time they reached the flat dirt floor, Varric and Hawke had to squeeze their shoulders sideways through the claustrophobic stairway. The smell was worse down here, lingering damp and mold that was punctuated by the sharp, metallic tang of blood. That was just enough to make Hawke frantic as he took the lantern from Varric and held it up high. It did little more than illuminate a small, circular patch of dirt at his feet.

“Anders!” Hawke didn’t register Varric warning him about what else might be down here as he started calling. He remembered Anders telling him that once, after one too many escape attempts, the Templars in the Ferelden circle locked him into a cell, alone, for a year. He then admitted, dropping his gaze and looking as though he felt foolish, that he had nightmares about it still.

“There’s a corridor over here.” Fenris’ voice rose out of the darkness on the other side of the room, and Hawke followed it, trying desperately to maintain some veneer of calm, trying desperately to close his mind to the cold sickness in the thought of what if he was, yet again, too late. There was such weight in living up to the expectations and responsibilities of the warrior, the first son, and the “Champion of Kirkwall” as if that were a title that meant anything after what Kirkwall had done to him.

But Kirkwall  _had_  given him something.

Then it didn’t matter; not Bethany, not Carver, not his mother, not the Qunari, or the Viscount, or anything in miserable fucking Kirkwall because Anders was there, bloody and bruised, chained down to the wall like a prisoner, but there. Anders’ eyes lifted wearily and instantly the desolation in them was replaced with an aching light. He called for Hawke, his voice hollow and raspy, trying desperately to smile as Hawke marched across the cell, dropped to his knees with an audible clank, grabbed his cheeks and kissed the air out of him.

“I thought I’d lost you,” Hawke murmured, finally breaking, resting his forehead to Anders’ with relief that he couldn’t begin to articulate. Varric immediately began to pick the locks on his shackles while Hawke resisted a powerful urge to try and wretch them out of the walls like a big, dumb fool. “I don’t know what I would have done if I had lost you too.”

The exhaustion written on Anders’ face was palpable; the hollows of his thin cheeks were more pronounced, and he could barely keep his head up. But he was always the healer, always too ready to share a measure of whatever strength he had inside of him. Hawke felt it, that little spark of beautiful fury, as, despite how little he could move, Anders nuzzled into his cheek. How strange it was to need that, to need courage from him when Hawke was the one trying to do the rescuing.

“When I was in the tower in Ferelden, I used to have dreams like this,” Anders’ voice was barely a whisper, this ragged, ugly sound, and Hawke stopped him to give him a drink from his waterskin. “I dreamt that someone would find me and help me escape. Of course, the tower is in the middle of a lake so, there wasn’t much hope of that. Still, I would lie in bed at night and imagine what my rescuer would look like. I always thought it would be another mage—not a literal knight in shining armor. But here you are.” Anders tried again to smile, didn’t work, but he tried. His head fell forward, resting his cheek against Hawke’s, so tired, so weak. “I never thought I’d see you again.”

“I’m so sorry it took me this long. I should have been here to stop this,” Hawke whispered. There was a clunking noise as one of the shackles finally gave in to Varric’s ministrations. No longer held up by that arm, Anders tumbled weakly against Hawke.

“I never doubted that you’d come. I just wasn’t sure what you’d find of me when you did.” There was another clunk and this time Anders collapsed against Hawke, feeling so much thinner and lighter than he usually did. But he still tightened his arms around Hawke’s shoulders, as if it were a hug rather than an inability to keep himself upright. “How long have I been here? Do you know?”

“Four days, according to my contacts.” Varric spoke up first, picking up the lantern and handing it off to Fenris.

“Oh. No wonder I’m so hungry.” Anders actually managed a small laugh this time. “I…I wasn’t really…here…Justice kept…I have these huge black spots in my memory where a Templar walks in and suddenly I feel like hours have passed.”

“We need to get you out of here. Can you walk? I can’t carry you through the stairwell.” Hawke brushed a stray wisp of blond hair out of Anders’ eyes. He’d lost the leather tie somewhere, and his hair was in total disarray.

“You can’t carry me anyway. Your armor is all pointy, and I bruise easily.” Anders said, kissing Hawke lightly on the nose. “Give me just…give me a minute.”

“The longer we’re here, the more likely we are to run into Templars.” Fenris said, looking like nothing but white hair and lyrium in the dim light.

“Fenris?” Anders began to get to his feet, wobbly and unsteady, clutching to Hawke’s shoulder.

“I am not here out of concern for you, mage.”

“Oh, good. I was worried that you might have found a heart that you didn’t tear out of someone’s chest.”

With an annoyed grunt, Fenris shoved the lantern at Hawke and pushed past him towards the stairs.

“Not that I wouldn’t love to watch you two whip it out and compare,” Isabela said from the shadows near the hall. “But I heard something upstairs. If we’re going to get you out of here, we need to do it now.” Isabela appeared behind Hawke as Anders finally stood. “Put an arm around me, and don’t say I never did you any favors.” Anders draped his arm over Isabela’s shoulder, favoring a leg as she helped him across the room. The stairwell was far too tight for them to walk side by side, so they ended up shimmying awkwardly up the stairs with their backs against the wall.

Despite Isabela’s claim, the chantry was as empty and quiet as they had left it. Once upstairs, Hawke shucked off his breastplate and handed it to Varric, saying he’d pick it up at the Hanged Man another time. 

Though Anders protested, Hawke lifted him onto his back, hooking his arms under his thighs while the mage hugged his shoulders. Hawke carried him home, and by the time they got there, Anders was snoring lightly, clinging to Hawke so tightly that he had to wake him to detach him.   
  
Anders needed a meal, and a bath, and probably some bandaging, but when he woke up as Hawke was lying him down, concern and love on that hard-chiseled face, the other things seemed inconsequential. He took Hawke’s hand and pulled him in, and they slept through the night that way, filthy, exhausted, and home.


End file.
